


seashells

by eIiza



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dissociation, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Nonbinary Character, but not following through, i guess?, its Eliza, self harm attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eIiza/pseuds/eIiza
Summary: The first one, the smallest one, fits perfectly on the tip of their middle finger. If they press it on right, the shell will stay even when they turn it to the ground. It’s satisfying, often soothing enough to placate when their head turns to cotton, nothing but silent static filling an empty room and the feeling of falling just to the right no matter how they’re positioned.Eliza has a hard time and then Alexander comes home with cake.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i cant sleep haaa.... have yet another nd eliza has a bad time fic
> 
> its a lot of dissociation description and emotions

Seashells, three small, dirty ones, are arranged on the old peeling paint of the windowsill. If Eliza were to try and pick one up... no, they’re certain they would faze right through it, through the dusty, cracked glass of the window pane, and tumble through the wall, the fall two stories high. Would it be fast, or would their incorporeal quality cause their descent to be mere drifting, lifeless, unreal.

Falling is undesirable, and distant alarms blare, stifled through the fog, warning them of the danger, but they don’t move away from the closed window. The blanket enveloping them is dead weight, and they can’t tear their gaze from the seashells.

The first one, the smallest one, fits perfectly on the tip of their middle finger. If they press it on right, the shell will stay even when they turn it to the ground. It’s satisfying, often soothing enough to placate when their head turns to cotton, nothing but silent static filling an empty room and the feeling of falling just to the right no matter how they’re positioned.

They reach out to pick up the seashell but their arm, unfaithful, isn’t there, imprisoned by the blanket. They know logically, that it  _ is _ there, so there isn’t any need to distress over missing limbs. Instead, upset and frustration protest against this immobile injustice, swelling forth in a great burst of numbers, spilling out in tears and harsh, shallow breaths, demanding the impossible.  _ Why not? Why can’t you? Useless, unworthy, unfortunate - _

They fall to the right, curled up on the bed, still swathed in their prison. Rations are scarce, no room to breathe, no room to unfurl. Tears continue to spring forth, they pillage and plunder, and then, only after they’re satisfied, minutes, weeks, years later, they subside, leaving nothing but tracks of remnants stained down Eliza’s face, and the barren, hollowed out feeling in their chest. 

Breath meekly slinks back through the wreckage, and settles in the salvage of their lungs, present but painful, scant. Thoughts return too, mulling over what remains, criticizing the comparative, blatant lack of...of everything. Everything that matters. 

_ Pathetic. Wretched, forsaken, undeserving, incapable of contributing anything of use. No arms, no lungs, no legs, nothing, nothing. Every action all for naught, undeserving of love, no good, no good. _

Thoughts are unwelcome, unpleasant and need to end. Still stuck horizontal, they snake a hand out of their holding cell and retrieve the second shell. Really, it’s half a shell, only a cracked fragment of what it once was, torn asunder at the whim of the universe. They run a finger along the sharp, broken edge. The prospect is great, the procedure, simple: pain banishes thought. Pain consumes, clears out everything, the good, the bad, everything. And if there is no good, then what is there to lose?

Eliza presses the tip to their arm, forcing their skin taught, tenting inward but not breaking, a final pathetic struggle to keep the vile out and retain what is theirs inside, safe. But the vile has already infiltrated, it fogs their mind, turns their tongue to lead, and runs course through their veins.  _ Spill it out. Cleanse, cleanse.  _ But they press no harder.

The third shell is plain, average. An empty husk that once held something living that now collects dust by a grubby window. It does nothing, says nothing, contributes nothing, and no one pays it any mind. It has no goals, no dreams, nothing to disappoint.

The empty shell that Eliza is lays motionless. The goals and dreams they’re supposed to accomplish, the basic requirements for being a functioning adult, they’re all too much. The life of the shell is the ideal. Relaxing the hold on their improvised blade, skin blossoming a red mark in relief, they cocoon tighter in their blanket, metamorphosing into a seashell, and drift. Shell blade held tight, close to their heart, they drift with the ocean, their breath marking the ebb and flow of the tide.

For an eternity, there is nothing.

 

A lock clicks and a door swings open. Plastic bags crinkle and crackle from light years away as they’re set down, and shoes pat, pat, pat until they’re dismissed with a thump.

“Hey, I’m home!” comes a cry too distant, searching through the empty rooms of the tiny apartment.

The plastic bags voice their upset at being disturbed, intermittent with the soft clacking of goods being placed on the counter.

“You won’t believe what I found on sale.” The voice draws nearer.

Silence.

Nothing but the gentle drifting of the tide.

“Eliza?”

The door to the room creaks open as tears leak out, mourning the loss of peace. It’s difficult to retire as a seashell when life comes searching for you, sits on the bed next to you.

“Are you alright?”

Their reaction screams no, breath suddenly struggling to escape the impending future, tripping and catching on sobs brought about by the fresh onslaught of tears.

“Is contact okay?”

It is, but the vile chokes their answer, and all that comes out is a strangled whine as their attempt dies in their throat. It is understood nonetheless.

Alexander reaches past their cocoon and rests a hand on their quivering shoulder, warm, solid, real. It’s not quite contagious, but an echo of it seeps in with his touch, and suddenly they’re scrambling, limbs weak but real enough to propel themself toward him seeking desperately for more. He gathers them in his arms, and they curl up against his chest, still partially swathed in their cocoon. Settling against him, they drift to the ebb and flow of his lungs, his heart drumming out the existence of life.

He only kisses the top of their head, knowing now, after countless fights and miscommunications, makeups and mistakes, that they won’t be able to speak, that this isn’t his fault, that it happens sometimes and they’re working on it. Unable to keep silent, he hums a nameless melody, the serenity of it reverberating through his chest, and Eliza slowly settles into their head, their hands relinquishing ownership to them once more.

Eliza nuzzles their face against his chest, a signal, and his song fades to a close.

“Hey you,” he speaks softly against their hair.

They summon all their strength to whisper back, “Hey.”

Another kiss is pressed to the top of their head, “Feeling a bit better?”

They nod, eyes closed.

“Great,” he says. It’s sincere, Eliza knows this, knows the Alexander whose arms they’re wrapped in. It’s familiar, safe, so they find comfort when he keeps talking, “Can I interest you in some fine delicacies that I found on sale? When you’re ready, of course. The drawback is that they all will expire within the week, perhaps sooner than that implies, but if it comes to it, we can invite some food goblins to clear it out for us. I know Herc, at the very least, won’t decline. And, the most exciting of them all -- though don’t get me wrong, they’re all gourmet -- I found that mango sponge cake you love so much.”

Eliza perks up at that, venturing to open their eyes to meet Alexanders. He catches their imploring look and validates, “Yup, exactly the one you’re thinking of. With the little whip and chocolate stick topping.”

They stare at him with wide eyes, and he laughs, warm and gentle.

“I’m guessing you want some?”

They nod, almost too quickly.

“Alright, let’s go get some cake.”

Before Eliza can find their legs, he’s lifting them up in his arms, blanket discarded on the floor, no longer necessary. They loop their arms around his neck and bury their face into his shoulder as he carries them to the kitchen, depositing them on the counter among various single-slice cake boxes and plastic pastry containers. They watch as he retrieves two forks from the drawer and pops open the lid of the box revealing an eight inch log cake.

“What do you think, just cut it in half?”

They nod again, and realize their shell blade is still held firmly in their grip. Who they were when they first picked it up is almost a distant memory, one that belongs to someone else. To someone else, the shell is a blade. Here, Eliza decides, it’s a cake knife. They offer it to Alexander.

He looks at in incredulously. “This? No, Eliza, that’s way too small. I’d end up cutting most of it with my fingers.”

They silently giggle at the thought of him mashing down the middle of the cake in an attempt to slice it with his hand. Instead, he uses the entirety of the fork to split the cake in an uneven two. Handing the clean fork to Eliza and spinning the larger half to them, he says, “There you go, half a cake, as per the doctor’s orders.”

Spearing off a large chunk, they watch Alexander do the same. Still a bit off, still not sure where their feet are, still entertaining the notion that they’re the absolute worst, they feel a lot more stable, though thoroughly exhausted. Eating who knows how old cake in their tiny, run down apartment is enough for now. The future can wait.

Motioning for Alexander to come closer, they wrap their legs around his chest and pull him into a hug, resting their cheek on his head. Wrapping his arms around them in return, he hums his agreement happily. The future can wait, and until then, they’re not alone. Leaning back to tilt his face up, they plant a kiss on each of his cheeks and whisper, “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> i live for comments n kudos. they are my mango sponge cake


End file.
